


A Day Without Incident

by ThereAreNoNamesForWhatIAm



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 08:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereAreNoNamesForWhatIAm/pseuds/ThereAreNoNamesForWhatIAm
Summary: While riding back to the Continental camp near Monmouth, Hamilton is thrown from his horse into a river. Washington - fearing the worst - jumps in after him.(A short not-so-historical story in which no one is really hurt, and everyone is mildly amused by Hamilton's misfortune.)





	A Day Without Incident

**Author's Note:**

> This is a not-so-historical fanfiction, co-written with my sister, purely for amusement. Please read on, and enjoy!

The sun shone brightly in a cloud-less blue sky. While early September was not the warmest month in New Jersey, the sunlight was a welcomed change to Hamilton, who spent much of his time indoors writing for Washington. The sound of hoof beats on a dirt road was a calm ambiance. It was as though everything was _alive_ again. Compared to Valley Forge, everything was... brighter.

Riding side-by-side with Washington, Hamilton had spent the last half-hour talking about troop movement and a more efficient way to get supplies from one part of the army to the next. In the brief moment it took him to take a breath, he came up with another topic; the move to Monmouth. It was almost complete. The men were temporarily camped only a few miles away. It had been a long, slow trip, but the men were happier than they had been at the start of the year--who wouldn't be pleased to leave Valley Forge behind? Even Hamilton—who was ever the first to put on an optimistic face when he felt low—had begun to snap at people before the move. Now, however, he had allowed himself to momentarily forget about the war.

Washington breathed in deeply—the air was fresh and crisp, nothing like the stale and wet smell of Valley Forge. “The men's spirits are lightened, are they not?”

“Yes, Sir. So much, in fact, that Laurens has not complained once in the last month; a wonder, I assure you,” Hamilton stated, grinning over at the General. Normally, he didn't show such glee outwardly—not during business and war. But Washington had told him that this day was a “Day of Rest.” So Hamilton would treat it as such.

They approached a river, over which a stone bridge stretched across just wide enough for two horses to walk over side by side.

The general ran a hand down his horse's neck when the animal tensed in apprehension of the bridge. He returned to holding the reins and rolled his shoulders back, “I am sure that is to change.” The man wore a slight smile.

“Most likely,” Hamilton agreed. His horse, too, snorted and eyed the bridge with apprehension. Hamilton—either oblivious, or unconcerned—did not respond to the animal's anxiety. He was halfway over the bridge when an owl flew out from beneath the stone arch.

The next moment, Alexander's horse leapt sideways and wheeled around, throwing its rider off the saddle and over the edge of the bridge, into the river below. Hamilton—having had little warning—was woefully unprepared, and fell the twenty feet into the river with a sharp yelp and a splash.

Washington's eyes widened, and, focusing on one issue at a time, pulled his horse's head around to calm her as she jumped and skittered sideways on the stones. He let go with one hand and reached bent forward over the mare's neck, snagging Hamilton's horse's reins before the creature bolted off the bridge. His own steed still prancing anxiously he swept off, let go of both (now in some kind of control) and made his way to the railing, gripping it with both hands and looking over at the water. He took a hesitant breath and called, “Alexander!” There was no reply. In fact, he thought everything looked a little too still. Searching for some sign, which came in the form of a splash to the right, he pushed his cloak to the side and with an unnatural amount of grace clambered onto the rail, held his breath, and dove.

The water was cold and pressuring. He rose quickly to the surface and inhaled, spluttered, then swam, glad for once that his brothers had thrown him into so many different bodies of water that swimming held no power over him. “Alex—” his head dipped under the water and he ended up spitting out a mouthful of swampy, murky, suspicious liquid, “Alexander, answer me, man!” The bridge had cast too great of a shadow. He growled, something rising into his throat, suffocating and familiar and exhausting...

Hamilton popped out of the river spitting out a mouthful of water, looking sheepish and chagrined. He swam gracefully over to Washington, despite the strong current. Growing up on an island, he'd had plenty of swimming practice. “You didn't fall in, too?” He knew the answer to that already, but thought he'd ask, as he had nothing more intelligent to say, still feeling a bit ridiculous for his ever-so-graceful tumble into the river. The mere memory of it had him turning a shade redder.

Washington looked simultaneously relieved and flustered. “Not so much a fall I would say.” He raised his eyebrows—it was strange to see the neat, modish man reduced to his current soaked state. “You reduced me to near panic, my boy.”

Hamilton disappeared under the water for an instant, as though he simply wished to vanish from the face of the earth for his show of ungainliness. When he reappeared, the young man was no more mollified than before. “'Mm sorry, Sir.”

“Just simply...” Washington, evidently unable to continue with his put together sentence, broke into a concealed smile and a huffing laugh, “Forgive me, but you are quite a sight.”

Despite himself, Hamilton laughed too... just a little. “A mess, you mean? I'm quite a mess.”

“I would say so, yes.”

The noise Hamilton made after that statement was somewhere between a pained groan and a choking sound as he sank again, resurfacing to ask, “Why was I born to be so clumsy?” before sinking again in the most dramatic fashion he could manage.

Washington laughed outright when the colonel sank out of earshot. He reached under the surface and grasped the younger man by the shoulders, forcing him to resurface, “Come now, don't be quite so hard on yourself.”

Hamilton tread water and shook his head. “I must never have a day without incident; that would be too much to ask.”

“Give it time, perhaps when you are as matured as I you will find less and less incident in daily life.” Washington's eyes glinted.

Hamilton slanted Washington a suspicious look. “Perhaps, but I don't trust to hope.” He tried—in vain—to straighten everything out, picking slime and some sort of river-grown plant off his shoulder, looking at it as though nature had betrayed him.

“It's a refreshing swim, is all.” Washington, now acting with the facade of naivety, swam toward the river bank.

Hamilton shot past him, swimming under the surface like a fish. He dragged himself out of the river, looking like a wet cat, then waited by the bank for the general, should he require assistance.

Washington mimicked the action, only slower. He wrung out his cloak.

Hamilton looked down at himself with poorly disguised horror. “I'm _covered_ in... slime! Green... plant... stuff.” His usually suave voice now laced with something akin to panic.

“That's rather natural, Alexander. I daresay you're overreacting.” Washington smirked, his back turned.

Hamilton smiled. He knew he was overreacting. But it was good to see Washington relaxed, happy... Even if that meant the man was laughing at Hamilton's unfortunate, ungraceful splash in the river.

“You are a character.” Washington waved his cloak to aid in the drying process and turned back to the younger, looking him over. He really did look like a wet cat. It was hard for him to find the words to say it, but he truly cared for the young colonel—he was intelligent, bold, compassionate, and also rather a challenge to deal with at times. And by _'challenge'_ , he meant devilish.

Hamilton accomplished a sweeping bow in response to Washington's comment. “Merci, Monsieur.”

“Certainly.”

Hamilton trudged back up the hill, doing his best to ignore the squishy, squeaking noise emanating from his shoes with each step. “If Laurens or the Marquis see me like this, they will never let me forget it,” he stated as he caught his horse. The critter appeared much pleased with himself, as though he'd thrown Hamilton intentionally.

“It would be unfortunate to have this story known to them, then...” Washington's hinting tone was buried under a mask of normalcy and sincerity.

“How do I know you won't tell them?” Thinking that sounded a little too rude, Hamilton tacked on a “Sir,” onto the end.

“Ye of little faith.” Washington mounted his own horse after catching the mare, rubbing her mane with a soaked-gloved hand as he observed his riding companion.

The young man snorted as he vaulted into the saddle, wondering if he'd dry off before they got back to camp.

Washington huffed again and urged his horse into a trot.

Hamilton followed, this time paying more attention to his horse as they crossed the bridge. This time, without incident.

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it. My sister and I hope you found some humor in this, and also, hope you enjoyed it! Thank you for reading to the end and have a great day! (Or night!)


End file.
